It Takes One to Know One
by Madigirl
Summary: Cory may have finally found some one who could out con the con artist.


"Sold!" At the sound of the gavel, lot 37 was sold to bidder 93, a handsome, stylishly dressed, young man in the third row. Smiling triumphantly, he lowered his paddle and moved his way to the table at the side of the room. For him the auction was over. He had his prize.

The man at the table took the credit card information, and both men stood waited uncomfortably for the purchase confirmation. "So," The man behind the table look at his notes. "Mr. Raines. Are you a member of that Four Square Church?"

"Not me." Cory Raines flashed a rakish smile. "I'm just a collector."

A pretty girl in a short skirt brought out a small book wrapped in plastic. She laid it on the table, bending a little lower than necessary, showing off her considerable assets. "I hope you enjoy this," she said, as she slowly straightened, and smiled at the dark haired buyer. "You certainly paid a lot for it."

"That will be all, thank you, Darla." The auction house representative gave the girl a stern look, but smiled ingratiatingly as he turned back to Cory. "It is quite a purchase. The only known diary of Aimee Semple McPherson." He handed the package to Cory, who put it, unceremoniously, into his coat pocket.

"Yeah." Raines patted the coat over the pocket. "I'm going to take good care of this baby."

Once back in his room at the Plaza, Cory took a pen knife from his pocket and sliced the protective wrapping that held the diary. He propped some pillows against the head of the bed, sat back and regarded his purchase. The diary was a bound book with a brown cover, the word Diary etched in gold lettering on the front. It was a plain book. Cory smiled. It was the only thing plain about Aimee.

Cory remembered the flamboyant preacher, with her bleached bobbed hair, her brassy style of dress and her sense of the theatrical. That kid had been a natural. He'd seen it from the beginning. She had already had a pretty good business going with her traveling gospel show, when he first met her just outside of Omaha. People flocked to see her and her show, and if they happened to hear the word of God along with it, so much the better. It was a good scam, but Cory had known how it could be even better. Opening the book slowly, he started to scan the pages of surprisingly precise writing, looking for anything that might point a finger his way.

August 12, 1917

We wrapped up a very successful revival today. These Nebraskans are good Bible folk, and they are so starved out here for a tiny bit of entertainment, and, from what I can tell, a pretty girl, they're willing to pay just about anything. We raked in more money from these corn husking farmers in one week, than we took in the two weeks we spent in Chicago.

After the meeting, I met the most extraordinary man, a Mr. Kenneth Ormiston. He came right up to me after I finished the sermon, and I thought for sure he was going to ask for a healing. He had that hungry kind of look they always get. Instead, he grabs my hand and plants a kiss on my cheek. Then he whispers in my ear, "Sister Aimee, I'm going to make you a very rich lady." I would have put him down as just another flim flammer, but the guy had the looks, and let's face it, Mr. Harold McPherson, hasn't proved to be all a wife could hope for.

Ormiston says I should give up the traveling show, and head to California. He says that's where the future is, and that's where my little show will grow into something that even the big ones, like Billy Sunday, will envy. Harold isn't for it, of course. He keeps at me to settle down, make a home for him and the kids. I can't do it, though. I'm going to be something special, like a star on Broadway, and I think this Ormiston guy can help me get there.

Using his finger as a bookmark, Cory closed the book, and stared at the wall as he called up the past. Aimee was a shrewd one, and despite her love of spectacular, she was eminently practical. When Harold refused to go to Los Angeles, flatly stating that it was either the tent shows or him, Aimee made the practical decision and left him behind. Working behind the scenes, Cory, in the persona of Kenneth, guided the eager young woman, helping her to run the little scams that brought in the suckers, otherwise known as the faithful, with their devotion and their money. Cory had to smile at that. There was so much money. It wasn't long before Aimee had enough to build a monument to herself, and to God, the Angelus Temple. Cory had thought that was overkill, but in retrospect, he had to admit that it was a smooth move. Almost from the start, the Temple would overflow with world weary, spectacle hungry marks, all vying for the opportunity to worship at the alter of Aimee.

Within a decade, Aimee Semple McPherson was better known and more popular than just about any movie star of the day. People loved her. Under Cory's guidance she had merged a natural showmanship and a latent ability to use the tricks of the tent trade, with her own very natural sexuality, to become an evangelistic star, a star that shined over an entire nation with the advent of radio. She had captured America's hearts, and along with it, their pocket books. But eventually even the brightest stars brown out, as the public moves on to the latest craze. In 1926, Aimee seemed at the pinnacle of her success, but Cory could see the signs that the public was turning to new sources of vicarious living.

May 1, 1926

Weekly takes from the Temple are down, and two sponsors have dropped from my show in the last year. I have been putting on bigger and bigger shows, doing bigger and better healings. Bringing in the drug dealers to say they were saved by my touch was sure genius, as were the nearly naked biblical theatricals, but I just don't seem to be dragging them in like I used to. Kenneth says we need something really big. Something that will make all the papers and make my name the first thing people say when theu get up in the morning, and keep them praying for me at night.

He has a plan.

May 18, 1926

I did it. It was ridiculously easy. The hardest part was looking like I was at Venice beach to just write a sermon, like normal, when what I was really doing was looking for a the beach to have just the right amount of people, paying just the right amount of attention. Kenneth was very specific about that. People had to see me go in, but never really be sure what happened after that. I waited until the beach was barely populated, and then I sort of waded around, trying to look like I was deep in thought, until no one was watching. Then I dived in and swam out to the boat where Kenneth was waiting.

So here I sit, in this cute little cottage, eating steak, drinking wine, and watching Kenneth trying to make a fire in the fireplace. I can't wait for the papers to come out in the morning. I have this awful fear that no one will even notice that I am gone.

May 20, 1926

This is working out better than I could ever have hoped. Kenneth has papers strewn all over the cottage and they all say the same thing, Evangelist Feared Drowned. People are patrolling the beaches, and scuba divers have been called out. Kenneth says we'll stay here, and lay low for about a month, then, I'll come back with a thrilling tale of kidnaping and miraculous rescue. If all goes well, we'll give interviews, print books, and maybe shoot a movie. The opportunities here are amazing.

May 30, 1926

Apparently my mother has received a ransom note. Somebody calling themselves "The Avengers" has demanded $500,000. Frankly, I think I'm worth much more. According to Kenneth's sources, and really, I'm always amazed at just how resourceful that man is, my mother has refused to pay because she believes I'm dead.

Kenneth can be so sweet. He asked me if I was ok, about my mother thinking I'm dead and all. He was really concerned. He even suggested that we could somehow get a message to her, so that she wouldn't have to worry. I know he was only trying to make me feel better, but its such a silly idea, and I told him so. The money will more than make up for the inconvenience.

June 4, 1926

Upton Sinclair has written a poem about me. I'm bigger than Mary Pickford. Take that America's Sweetheart.

June 10, 1926

Kenneth is very upset. He's going on and on about some girl who killed herself. The papers say she was so distraught over my disappearance that she just walked into the ocean. never to return. It's sad, of course, but really, it's not like she was a personal friend or something. Personally, I think it's great publicity. It certainly is keeping my name right out there on the front page. Honestly, I don't understand what all the hoopla is about. It's not like anyone is going to remember her when I get back.

June 13, 1926

Kenneth left, just grabbed his things and left. He said that he couldn't stay with me, that I had no heart. Who the hell does he think he is? I'm Aimee Semple McPherson, for God's sake. Any man in America, including Rudolph Valentino himself, would kill to have me, and he leaves me because I couldn't find the tears for some dime store Pickford wannabe? Well, guess what Mr. Kenneth Ormiston, I made it big despite the people who said a woman shouldn't preach, and I didn't need you, I never did. You were nothing but a stage door Johnny from the very beginning. I'll pull off this caper and come back bigger than ever. And you, you can go rob a bank for all I care.

Cory closed the book, got up and picked up the metal wastepaper basket that sat next to the dresser. Sitting down on the side of the bed, he tossed the book into the basket. A few days after he left, 32 days after she had disappeared, Aimee Semple McPherson knock on the door of a cottage in Agua Prieta, Mexico. She told a story about how she had been kidnaped, drugged and held somewhere in Mexico. She claimed that she had escaped when the kidnappers had a less than vigilant moment, and had walked for days to get out of the desert.

It was very close to the original plan, but without Cory's help, Aimee made some very basic mistakes. First, she hadn't paid off the servants from their little hideaway in the Hollywood Hills. Cory smiled and shook his head at the memory. She was convinced that they were stupid immigrants and would never recognize her or see the opportunity in their grasp. He wasn't at all surprised to hear that they had been spotted. She did remember to make herself look like she had spent time in the desert. During their time together, she had worked to make her normally fair skin dark and dry from the sun, something particularly hard for the vain woman to do, and the papers had reported that she was dehydrated.

Her biggest mistake, however, came in her choice of wardrobe. Here, her vanity tripped her up. She had, of course, disappeared in her bathing suit. When she showed up at the cottage, she was fully dressed, right down to her corset. Then there were her shoes. After walking for days in the desert, her shoes remained remarkably unscuffed.

Cory walked to the little refrigerator that came with the room and opened one of the beers he had purchased earlier. Twisting off the top, he took a long draw of the cold liquid. You had to give her this, though, she played it for all it was worth. When she came back to Los Angeles she was greeted by a crowd bigger than anyone, including Mary Pickford, had ever drawn before. People literally fell to their knees and thanked God for her safe return.

I didn't last, of course. Eventually she was found out, and though she never really admitted to the scam, she never really regained the trust of her followers. She tried bigger and bigger spectacles. She took huge financial risks. She even remarried, probably hoping to regain the sweet image she once had. It didn't work. It was never the same. Although she remained popular to the end, she never did regain the magic. In the end, she killed herself with an overdose of barbituates.

That was a real shame, Cory thought, as he pour the contents of his bottle into the basket. She could have had it all. He lit a match and tossed it in. She could have had the world, if only she had possessed a heart.

Cory sat and watch as the last reminder of his time with Aimee Semple McPherson burned itself out.


End file.
